Like Islands in the Sea
by fluggerbutter
Summary: Amidst uphill battles, personal conflict, and an inkling that they might have to find themselves sooner or later, some of Ferryport Landing's most polar opposites form an unlikely friendship. And, throwing societal norms to the window, this friendship persists — through monster hunts, car breakdowns, and even the underlying dissent over the morality of the Creamsicle.
1. Lox

_a/n (an a/n from mocha? unbelievable!): so i've had this story waiting to be published for months. most of the early chapters have been finished since july, but something __felt off about the organisation, and i couldn't come up with a title. hopefully this quick rearrangement (what you're about to read used to be the beginning of my second chapter) remedies some things. in any case, it's definitely not my best work in terms of writing/pacing, but i don't feel like polishing it too much at this point in case it's a flop with reviews, and i know it still might be some of my best in terms of dialogue. (__positive reviews = better writing later!) __working with sabrina and charming in chapter two was an utter delight. really, any opportunity i get to work with charming is a delight, and i really hope this idea sticks and you all love it, because charming and his relationship with daphne are unbelievably dear to my heart. hope you enjoy._

* * *

><p>A series of coincidences, paired with events cleverly disguised as coincidences by a girl who used to wear a riding hood, lead to the introduction of a best friend in Charming's life. This is new for him, the closest friend he's ever had being Seven, who is dead, and whom he abused for years prior.<p>

There's Snow, of course, but he doesn't think she can be categorised as a _best _friend, even if after she was elected they would go out for coffee and invite each other over and stay up too late talking. In the friendship sense, obviously. It was a pleasant period in his life, the trust between them slowly building, and he discovered that while they were apart she had developed a secret passion for violent video games and caramel popcorn. But after a while she stopped returning his calls. She claimed she was too busy. He believed her, for a time.

He wonders if he might have had a best friend before Bunny wrote his brother out of the story and put him in it.

He often wonders about what might have been if Bunny never wrote his brother out of the story, and put him in it.

Flashes come to him sometimes. Or at least he thinks they do. Maybe it's just nightmares—of Snow battered and bruised, sitting quietly for dinner, silent, flinching whenever Atticus moves. Maybe it's just his imagination. So white and so clean against her own blood on the floor. He wakes up in a pool of sweat twice a week with the digital clocks reading three in the morning. He'd never tell her.

Maybe it's just nightmares.

The only thing he has ever been able to remember from those days with both clarity and assurance is his horse. A stallion named Stronghold, massive and bold and a thing to be feared, white against the break of dawn, when he rode best. And yet, thinking about it, the memory brings with it the scent of something a fiery sort of sweet. Clove, maybe. Not the spice itself, no; he never stepped food in the kitchen when he was a prince—it's a horse's name. But a mare's name. He knows he had a stallion, he knows even now he'd only _ever _ride a stallion, so why does he remember a mare's name?

It might have been hers. He doesn't know. She'd have one at the castle. Sometimes he's so sure he remembers and at others he thinks it could be his mind playing tricks, planting false memories, and his confusion at what's real and what isn't grows until he is sobbing in the middle of the cereal aisle at the supermarket.

Life could have worked out better if they'd never found out. At first he thought it didn't change anything—his rewritten memories felt real, and for years he'd lived as if they were real, and his existence as it was remained the same, with the consequences played out just like they would if his past was what everyone believed it to be. Isn't that all life is? What people believe it to be? But then he saw the horror in Snow's face and the strain that piled up on her shoulders in heavy, invisible loads, and realised that in her stepmother's well-intentioned convolution, they cheated fate. So many times, their story was twisted, but the ending was always the same—except for this one. This one reality in which Snow White's heart still beats. Perhaps the world wants her dead, and Atticus alive, and him a nobody; perhaps the cosmos are so intently wired in that way, and they have found the one and only loophole. They exist in the parallel universe that shouldn't be. And so what _should_ be? What are their lives supposed to look like?

They can't even answer. They don't even know. So much of their muddled history is nothing but lies and cover-ups painted on a canvas of well-meaning deceit.

"It doesn't matter," said Bunny, when he dared to ask. "According to the story, it never happened."

"Then is _this _really happening?" he questioned faintly.

"Of course it is," she said, but that was little guarantee.

He might have had a best friend. He doesn't know.

* * *

><p>The first coincidence is just that—a coincidence, one of those inexplicable happenstances where the balance of the world seems to be tipped just a little in his favour. He's on business in New York City, at a conference, breaking for lunch with a bagel near Central Park; the sun beams and the city is, as always, abuzz with people and conversations and dramatic occurrences that go unseen in the midst of the crowd.<p>

Much like this one.

The strains of the jingle can barely be heard in this traffic, but when it comes to ice cream trucks, children have bionic hearing, and a boy of about four—with the _brightest_ red hair Charming's ever seen—speeds by shrieking before he can even figure out what the kid is going after.

"Bas!" yells the dark-haired girl running after him. She's going as fast as she can but it's not nearly fast enough. "Bas, we don't even have any money! Aw, Basil, come _on_..."

And that's when Charming realises that he _has _seen hair that shade before. On a much younger version of a former town pest.

"_Daphne_?" he exclaims. The girl spins around searching for the source of her name until her eyes fall on him.

"Charming?" she says in disbelief. It's been years since they've seen each other, his vacations always coinciding with the Grimms' summer trips to Ferryport Landing. But upon confirming it's the prince she once adored, Daphne leans forward and hugs him with that same warm affection that defined her when she was younger—and to him, it feels just as foreign as it did then. "I missed you," she smiles as she pulls back. "And I might have to miss you for just a little bit longer, because _someone_—"

"DAAAAAPHNEEEE!" shouts Basil. One hand clings to the open window of the now halted ice cream truck and the other waves for his sister. "Come here _now_!"

"Bas, I'm broke!" she responds helplessly, turning her pockets inside out for proof.

"I've got it," says Charming, in a surge of—what is it, kindness?—selflessness?—he doesn't even know the word—that he's still so unused to, even after all these years, even after Snow. He stands up, finishes off his bagel, and pays for the cone Basil is eyeing, then motions for Daphne to come over. "What would you like?"

"Really?" Daphne says. "I want to say you don't have to, that's what Mom would tell me, but I really want ice cream and you're way richer than I am. Orange Creamsicle, please."

Charming wrinkles his nose ever so slightly as the vendor hands it over. His respect for the Grimms won't allow him to do anything more, but Daphne notices anyway.

"Are you _judging _me, Billy?" says Daphne as she unwraps it, laughter a glint in her eyes.

The three of them walk back to the bench and sit down in order of decreasing height before he answers, "Yes."

"So you're not a fan of the Creamsicle. Why?"

It was the expected follow-up, but Charming is at a loss, having never been prodded to explain this particular revulsion. "It's just—I mean—it's like you're cheating."

She bites off the top of the treat and stares at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"_Well_, if you're going to have ice cream, then have ice cream," he explains. He talks with his hands, just a little bit, like he's been trained not to and is fighting against it. "And if you're going to have a popsicle, do that. But don't have _both_. Don't disgrace your ice candy by stuffing it with dairy. Don't slather your ice cream in some artificially-flavoured orange-dyed high fructose corn syrupy concoction. It's unethical."

She licks her Creamsicle and studies him with deepening interest.

"And they look really gross," Charming adds, for argumentative benefit.

"S'okay, Mr. Prince, I don't like creamsi-popsi-sicles either," says Basil, who has been eating his ice cream in silent satisfaction and is by this point thoroughly covered in chocolate.

Daphne gives her sugar-coated brother a once-over and sighs before suddenly turning back to Charming. "_Unethical_? All the words in the world and you choose _that _one to describe a Creamsicle?"

"It was a perfectly good adjective," he sniffs. "But how does Basil Jr. here know who I am? Unless he was a particularly astute toddler, I doubt he'd recognise me without some sort of—has your sister been throwing darts at my picture again?"

The thought sends Daphne into a fit of giggles and Charming finds himself smiling at the sound. "She used to think about it plenty, but I think she's over you. No, turns out my mom hid a couple of old photo albums at home. You're in there a bit. Bas thought you looked like a superhero."

"Like Superman," Basil nods solemnly. Ice cream is dripping all over his fingers; Daphne pulls out a tissue from her pocket and wipes them clean only to have them stained again a second later. "But they said you were a prince. Can you fly, Mr. Prince?"

Charming blinks. "Er, no."

"That's too bad," says the boy, casting him a pitied glance.

"I... suppose so?'

"S'pose so," Bas repeats. He's on his way to finishing the cone, now, but Daphne takes it from his sticky hands before he has the time to register and yank it back.

"That's enough sugar for today. It's Dad's turn to put you to bed and he'll kill me if he finds out I'm the reason you're bouncing off the walls."

Charming chuckles. "Henry doing all right?"

"Not really," says Daphne.

"Oh."

"It's for a good reason, though."

"There's a good reason for your father not being all right?" He pauses. "Actually, that does sound like him. What's the reason?"

She slides the rest of the Creamsicle off its stick. "I can't tell you," she says, past a mouth full of orange icy mush. Charming makes a face.

"After subjecting me to _that _sight, I think you owe me."

She swallows and grins. "Fine. We're moving back to Ferryport Landing."

"Really?"

"Shh! Don't tell anyone. Not even Snow. _Especially _not Snow. It's supposed to be a surprise."

He knows why she's saying it, but he has to ask anyway to make sure she doesn't return to Ferryport Landing and become the town matchmaker. "Why would I tell Snow?"

She frowns. "You're not married yet?"

"We're not even dating!"

"That's too bad." She pouts in the same way Basil did a few minutes earlier. "Well, if you do tell her, you didn't hear it from me."

"Fine, fine."

"So what about you? How're you doing, how's the town?"

"I'm good. It's good. Growing. Snow's doing a good job taking care of the place, the school, expanding the borders... probably doing better than I would have. I'm glad she won the election."

"Yeah, Red's told me about it. She says school's great. What are you doing down in the city?"

"Not much, really, I'm just here for the weekend on busine—oh, _damn_!" he says, shooting up from the bench. "The conference! I have a seminar to attend in..." He groans. "Ten minutes ago. I'm sorry, Daphne, I've got to run. Tell Sabrina and your parents I said hello."

"Thanks for the ice cream!" she calls after him.

The last thing he hears before he is lost away in the rush of the New York multitude is Daphne telling Basil, "Mr. Prince said a bad word. But it's okay. He's really a nice guy."


	2. U-Haul

The second coincidence is the breakdown of the moving van, and this one is complicated. Red influences the timing of the move with ease since Daphne wants her to be there—mid-August, a few weeks before school, sounds very good to her. It's not because of Charming. Charming, at this point, does not play into anything. It's because of Puck. He and Jake drive through the town on their annual drive to Maine every August, and Red thinks it might be fun to watch Sabrina squirm. It's not _just_ because of that, of course. She loves Sabrina. Sabrina loves Puck. So she's doing a good thing, here, even if Sabrina won't think so.

But, as it turns out, mid-August is also the time of the year when Charming drives down to New Jersey for a well-deserved break, and so when the moving van rolls to a halt on an empty stretch of road in the quiet countryside not far from the town and Sabrina hops out of the back that she's not supposed to be in, it's _his _car she sees. And she knows it's his car, because the horse hood ornament paired with the sleek white Porsche is so utterly pretentious it can't possibly be anyone else.

She sticks out her thumb and hopes for the best and to her mild surprise, he stops.

He rolls down the window, one eyebrow raised. Even the curl in the middle of his forehead looks peeved. "Good morning, Grimm."

She doesn't know why, but the sound of his voice makes her grin. Her life is falling back into a place she forgot she missed. "It's been too long, Charming."

"Truly, it hasn't been long enough." He peers at the massive vehicle behind her, where Veronica is opening the hood. "Truck overheated?"

"In this weather, probably. Actually, hopefully it is, because then we can get going sooner rather than later."

"If you have coolant."

"Of course we have coolant. Dad wouldn't forget something like that. Even if he did, Mom would've double-checked."

"It's not Henry I'm worried about. Or Veronica, for that matter. I think the teufelkind's toying with you."

"Teufelkind...? Oh, you mean—oh, come on, Charming. That's low, even for you."

"I don't _actually _think she's a devil child. She's a wonderful girl. Doesn't talk nearly as much as your sister. I'm just saying Puck—who, by the way, is definitely teufelkind—might have had a bigger influence on her than you think. Your uncle passes through this way every year, and since you're barely speaking and you obviously should be, she might not be above sabotage."

"No way. This is Red we're talking about. She's the sweetest little—"

"She's _definitely _not above sabotage. Look."

Sabrina glances up just in time to see a small hand with a large bottle reach out of the back of the truck, and the Grimms' remaining coolant is dumped in the grass before she has a chance to react.

"Man," she says, and, feeling her younger sister's old vocabulary applicable, huffs, "So not punk rock."

Charming laughs.

"You find this funny? I'm gonna kill her once we're on the road and that back door is closed again."

"I'm laughing more because of your eloquent assessment of the situation."

"Oh, shut up." Sabrina leans back into the car. "So are you going to help with this, or do I have to wait for that idiot fairy to come by and brag about rescuing me from the jaws of death? Because I have to say, I wasn't missing it. Especially since he usually spends an hour on the bragging before actually making a rescue attempt."

"I don't have any coolant."

"Got a wand?"

"You're an _addict_."

She shrugs. "Daphne can work one like nobody's business."

"No, I don't have a wand," he says, allowing his natural royal condescension to overtake the conversation. "Unlike some people, I'm not in the habit of carrying errant magical items on trips outside Ferryport. Or inside it, really. Who needs magic when you have money?"

"Ah, some things never change."

"Let's see, I'm materialistic, you're excessively sarcastic—no, I think we've made a lot of progress."

"And it appears your skillset has extended to excess sarcasm as well."

"I guess you're rubbing off on me. You ought to be touched."

"Sabrina!" calls Veronica. "What did I tell you about the whole stranger thing?"

"It's just William!" Sabrina shouts back before extending her hand to the prince. "Well? Care to keep us company while we wait for the other addict and the glorified housefly?"

"You do know you're supposed to hate me," Charming reminds her. "That was part of the deal. You hate me, I hate you, the earth continues in its natural orbit..."

"I hate you a little bit. I hate your obnoxious hair. And some of your tiepins. Does that count?"

He looks at her. She sighs.

"We never shook on that deal. Besides, it ended a long time ago, and you know it. You're just trying to get back into pre-war routine. Come on, up. And don't give me that my-car-might-get-stolen spiel—I'm sure you've had it hexed."

Charming lets out a deep and terrible sigh that is more theatrical than anything young Basil has been able to come up with in the past few months. His movements as he unbuckles and opens the car door are overwhelmingly exaggerated. "All right, fine. But just so you know, I'm not happy about it. I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart."

"Champion acting," Sabrina mutters as they make their way to the van. "You should try for Broadway."

Daphne and Red are sitting in the dandelion-dotted field off the side of the road with Basil while Henry and Veronica blame each other for the empty coolant bottle, too occupied with their yelling to acknowledge their daughter or the wayward prince she's brought along.

"Are you going to tell them?" asks Charming.

"Nah. They're behind in their arguing by about two years. I say let them have at it."

"You've become much more reasonable since I last saw you," Charming observes. "I approve."

Sabrina smiles. "I approve, too. I think the whole interacting with people who aren't insane or trying to kill me or losing their mind from dead or dying friends and family has been good for me. And in New York City, I don't have to worry about any of my friends turning into monsters, so that's cool."

"But you're fine going back to that?" he says.

"I missed it," she confesses. "I missed you."

"Ho, Mr. Prince!" Basil salutes from his spot in the grass. Daphne and Red echo the gesture, and Charming salutes back with a small smile. Henry peeks from behind the van and his face falls.

"Oh," he says disappointedly. "It's you."

"Good to see you too, Henry. I would have stayed away, but I think your daughter's smitten."

Daphne bites her lip to keep from laughing at Sabrina's loud protest, while Red openly twitters; so does Basil, unaware of what it is he's supposed to find amusing.

"Don't even joke about that. Got any water?"

"I'm afraid not. You didn't bring some yourself? It's not as if this a short drive."

Henry eyes Daphne reproachfully and she looks away, pretending to be enamored by a nearby flower. "We did, but the kids also brought Kool-Aid powder and flavoured every available bottle. No matter how much they might enjoy trying to see if the truck can run on Kool-Aid, I'm not pouring Tropical Punch into the reservoir."

Charming shakes his head. "This is why I don't have children."

"Really? I thought it was because you kept getting divorced."

Henry slinks back to the engine, only to once again have his ears verbally cuffed by his wife, before Charming can come up with a suitable retort.

Sabrina joins her siblings in the grass, and Charming, in another fleeting burst of whatever it is that's the opposite self-preservation (or at least the preservation of his favourite pants), sits down beside them.

The five of them are positioned in a straight row; Daphne leans back on her palms, past Sabrina, so she can look Charming in the eye as she talks. He does the same.

"How sweet of you to drop by," she grins. Her hair falls in dark waves now, past her shoulders, down to her back.

"I've been incredibly nice this summer. Your sister's even let me off parole."

"Not just yet," Sabrina interjects.

"Well. Almost let me off parole."

"Have you gotten around to Snow, yet?"

The thought of _her _chokes down his words, and in the silence that follows, Basil stands and stumbles after a tiny lavender butterfly that's caught his eye. Sabrina forces herself off the ground and chases after him, leaving the space between Charming and Daphne uninterrupted.

"No," he manages. "Not quite yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I just—"

"You're bringing disgrace to your name, Charming!"

"I'll say," says Red. "Everyone in the pool's losing money."

Daphne gently shoves an elbow into her best friend's rib without turning to look at her. "C'mon, Billy, when do you plan on winning her back? You're not getting any younger."

"Not like he's getting any older, either."

"Red!"

"Sorry."

"Daphne, you know it's not that simple," says Charming, pained.

"I'm ten. I really don't. Mind clarifying?"

He doesn't want to answer. But she doesn't want to let this go.

"She's mayor now. She—to tell you the truth, she has massive trust issues. And for good reason, too. I can't just ask her to drop all her principles and marry me."

"You're not _going _to ask her to marry you, dimwit, this is the twenty-first century. I know you've dated before. Ask her out. Let _her _ask you out. Do something different, because every other time you've tried to keep a girl you've failed, so you're obviously doing something wrong."

Charming stares at her. "That's... actually good advice."

"You _doubted _that Daphne could give good advice?" says Red, because it is something so obvious to her that Daphne is usually right—one trait of hers out of many that she adores. But then she remembers that she's been interrupting the whole time and that Charming kind of scares her, and she makes up some excuse about the jeopardized future of lavender butterflies and tags along with Sabrina.

And then it is Daphne Grimm and William Charming alone in the grass. By the time Jake pulls over, and Red catches a satisfying glimpse of Sabrina with Puck's arms around her waist, they are discussing the lack of competent policemen in Ferryport Landing and the distressing fact that Beauty has obtained three more exponentially annoying yappy dogs while the Grimms were away.

It has been too long since he's had company like this; his pants are grass stained and his hands are muddy, but he doesn't care, and when the Grimms finally get the van running and he gets into his car, he almost turns around and follows them. _Almost_. Just so he can talk and be heard again.

But he finds his own clinginess too shameful to bear, and instead he continues south, towards his vacation, his few precious days off. Alone.


	3. Java

In spite of a copious number of dinners and birthdays and holiday parties, they are not left unaccompanied again until November of the next year, where their meeting results in a brief but telling conversation.

It's Saturday. They're at the coffee shop, which is heated and crowded and loud; she says she's meeting a friend. He raises an eyebrow at her hair, which is piled atop her head in a bun that clearly took no small pains to construct.

"So it's a date," she says. "What's it to you?"

"Little bit young to be dating, aren't we?"

"And aren't you a bit too old to be single?" she quips.

He scowls. She smiles.

In truth, he worries about her. He doesn't much know _why _he worries about her so much as he knows he just does. She's so wholly trusting. And there are no shortage of people who would take advantage of the fact.

He has to stop and remind himself that it is because of her faith and willingness to see the best in people that she is friends with him at all.

"Fair enough."

She orders an innocent hot chocolate and waits with him for his cappuccino. "How's Snow?"

He winces. "You always ask about her."

"She's always relevant."

"She's never relevant."

"You don't mean that."

"Can't we just talk about someone else? _Something_ else? Anything. The weather. A movie. The stray cat that's been running around."

"And you said I was being irrelevant. Why would you need to talk to me about any of that?"

"I don't need to. I want to."

The confession is unexpected for both of them. She gives him a funny look. "You want to talk to _me_?"

He reaches a gloved hand for his drink. "I like you."

"You're kidding."

"You're not an idiot, and you don't hate me. It's a rare combination."

"What? After the war—people love you."

"People respect me. It's different. People love _you_."

She sips her hot chocolate. "Well, you're not wrong."

The door to the building opens, letting in a blast of cold air that makes them both shiver. The boy who walks in is short for his age, curly-haired and doe-eyed in a way that makes him look younger than he is. Daphne's smile upon seeing him is warm enough to dissolve the winter wind that lingers.

"Time for me to go," Charming announces. He brushes against the boy as he walks out, piercing him with a glare that makes the poor kid whimper.


End file.
